


Something so beautiful it hurts

by dragon_rider



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Rejection, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: It had not been a mistake, trusting Geralt. Jaskier trusted him with the world, with his life, with his heart still.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76
Collections: 30PlusFanfic Prompt Channel Fics





	Something so beautiful it hurts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elder-flower (elder_flower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/gifts).



> The prompt was "I trusted you."
> 
> Thanks to Charlie as always for the beta (:
> 
> Title from Ocean's soul by Nightwish.

It had taken Jaskier months to decide to go back to Oxenfurt. He’d only done it after promising himself he would only stay for a little while.

The night was clear, the stars bright above, and he could hear laughter both from inside the tavern he’d been performing at and out in the streets. He loved Oxenfurt for that. It was the one place in the whole Continent that made Jaskier forget how gloomy reality was, that made the world seem a better place.

He took a long gulp of the expensive wine he’d purchased with his earnings. He’d stopped trying to save coin a while ago, right around the time he figured out he wouldn’t be living for much longer.

He looked up at the night sky and smiled ruefully, throat itching and raw, chest struggling to take lungfuls of air. Oh, to have thought himself untouchable by such things as mortality and pain, only to have them brought upon him by the one thing he prided himself on the most: his capacity to love.

It was an Elven disease, one long forgotten. But poets like Jaskier knew it from the legends and songs, and his Elven blood made it possible for him to get it. He’d been very lucky in life, so much so that he couldn’t really complain: his features were entirely human, and he had no connection to Chaos. The only gift his mixed heritage had given him was longevity, making his body impervious to the passage of time after he reached twenty-five years of age.

After another sip, he had to swallow forcefully to avoid what he was sure was a long coughing fit. Patrons were still filling the tavern, and Jaskier did not want to draw attention to his ailment. Word would spread, since everyone knew who he was, and his friends would find out what he’d been keeping from them.

Jaskier had come to visit Priscilla and Essi to say goodbye. He was planning on leaving his treasured lute and songbooks with them. He trusted no one else with his most precious belongings.

At dawn, he would leave with nothing but the clothes on his back to perhaps make it to the coast, if the Gods were kind and stretched his remaining time enough to allow him to see the ocean waves once more.

His eyes watered from the effort he was making to ignore the itch in his throat. If he gave in, he would be a mess. He had at least lived long enough with this disease to have learned to navigate around some parts of it more easily, to avoid having witnesses after the first handful of times he’d been caught unawares by petals pushing out of his mouth.

It had always been tulips: white, red or pink. It depended on the day. Sometimes it was a mess of all three colours. Despite the fact that he was coughing up flowers, the sight was far from pretty, though he had been able to stop buying scented oils after the first month. Tulips had a fresh, aromatic scent and it followed him wherever he went. It seemed to ooze out of his skin, not just his breath. He’d liked it at first, but now it made him a little sick. Sometimes he would gag just from taking a deep intake of air and remembering he was basically a walking, withering garden.

He had been such a godsdamned fool. Of course he had known all along Geralt did not love him back. Perhaps before they met Yennefer, he’d been delusional enough to think Geralt’s feelings could grow into something more, but after she grabbed and took ownership of Geralt’s heart after barely a day of knowing him, well--Jaskier had watched them, tangled in each other, and resigned himself to the role of best friend and nothing else in Geralt’s life.

At least he’d lost against someone very powerful and very beautiful. If only Yennefer could also love Geralt the way he deserved to be loved, then Jaskier would not resent her so.

They were not to blame, either way. Jaskier was the one that had confessed his feelings to Geralt, knowing he would be rejected, but wishing to let his friend know how loved he was. 

Geralt… he had not appreciated Jaskier’s sweet words, nor the reassurance Geralt did not need to say anything back. If anything, Geralt had been furious, and though he had not known how to push Jaskier away successfully (yet) he had cursed him and left in the middle of the night.

Jaskier had seen him, riding Roach out, and felt the seeds that had been sitting dormant in his lungs give their first sprouts. He had drawn his last clear, easy breath in. The next morning, he had a small red petal in his palm, and dropped his head as he realized it was death knocking on his door.

It had not been a mistake, trusting Geralt. Jaskier could not point a finger at his true, dearest love, his best friend in the whole wide world, and accuse him of anything. It had been Jaskier’s mistake to have expectations. He had thought Geralt would cherish his feelings, and gently close his fingers around the beating heart Jaskier was offering to him in his open palm, and tell him they were friends and nothing more.

How very foolish of him! To have those expectations for the same man that had never acknowledged their friendship beyond an exasperated grunt or a roll of his eyes.

_“Geralt, I want to tell you something,” Jaskier had whispered, smiling as he turned to look at Geralt where they were sitting, so close their thighs were touching, on the lone log they’d found to put near the fire of their little camp._

_“Don’t,” Geralt had cut him off. He always did. It was a running joke between them, or so Jaskier thought._

_“Oh hush, you infuriating man! I think you need to know, you might even grow less… well,” Jaskier had paused, sighing as he tried to put into words his best friend’s utter and devastating self-hatred without making Geralt bristle. “Less mean to yourself, let’s say.”_

_Unsurprisingly, Geralt had not dignified Jaskier’s observation with any sort of reply and just used a long stick to poke at the embers softly cracking in front of them._

_Still resolute, Jaskier reached out and gently squeezed Geralt’s forearm over his armour._

_“I love you, Geralt. It’s been long enough that I know I will always love you. You don’t have to say anything. Don’t worry, my friend. I know you long for another, I just wish you could see yourself through my eyes. See the kind, noble man I’ve fallen for. Admire him, and be patient with him, as I am.”_

_Up until that moment, Jaskier had never seen true anger in his friend’s face. It looked blinding, like a sun was about to burst out of his amber eyes to burn Jaskier down to ashes._

_“You’re a fucking fool, and a liar,” Geralt had spat at him, shaking Jaskier’s hand off of him harshly. “I curse the day we met in Posada, bard. And one day, you will too.”_

_Jaskier was a little taken aback by Geralt’s ire and fire. Any other man would have cowered in fear, trembling, but not Jaskier. He understood he’d touched a nerve, though he did not understand which or how._

_Was it so terrible, to hear you were loved when you hated yourself and wanted nothing, but secretly craved everything?_

_“Ah, but you do remember it was in Posada,” Jaskier teased, sobering up quickly to stand up after Geralt and try to stop him from leaving. “I know you care, Geralt, and I’m telling you, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m happy travelling the Continent with you as we have for the past twenty years! Nothing has to change. I just wanted you to know--”_

_“Shut up,” Geralt’s voice was deep, an unforgiving growl that felt like Jaskier had not been looking around and his feet had been caught by licking flames. He stopped short, both his words and his movements stilling as he watched the love of his life securing saddlebags to Roach’s sides. “Don’t follow me. And don’t look for me.”_

_Jaskier had closed his hands into fists and watched him go. It was all he could do not to crumble until Geralt was far away enough that his Witcher senses would not pick his sobs, or his knees hitting the ground, or his fingers clawing open his doublet as he felt roots taking residence in his chest._

No. It had not been a mistake, trusting Geralt. Jaskier trusted him with the world, with his life, with his heart still. But in his well-meaning intentions of soothing Geralt’s inner aches and banishing his demons, he’d been careless with himself.

A rejection, in words or actions, would turn the petals Jaskier coughed every now and then into blossoms and grown flowers, leaves and branches, that would kill him from the inside out.

The tulips only crawled up his throat when they were apart at first, never in Geralt’s presence. Having him by his side soothed Jaskier enough to slow the disease’s progress, but after his declaration he started coughing every day, even after coming across Geralt again and having his friend pretend nothing was amiss between them.

It was worse than that, though. Geralt had regressed to the first months of their acquaintance, when he would keep his distance and scowl at him whether Jaskier was looking or not, when he would bark at him to shut up and mock Jaskier’s songs, calling him out for his embellishments and half-truths (or outright lies), pretending not to see when Jaskier shivered from the cold or bled from blisters on his tired feet, and saying nothing of the wheezing in his chest and the coughing fits, of the way Jaskier would always order honeyed tea and perform with breaks in between.

Jaskier knew this was Geralt closing off, retreating into himself to lick his wounds alone. It still hurt him deeply, knowing he’d caused Geralt such anguish, and to be the cause of the camaraderie between them being nowhere to be seen now. Even Yennefer noticed, and taunted Jaskier for it.

_“He doesn’t want you anymore, bard,” she said, sneering at Jaskier as Geralt went out of his way to do something the witch had asked. “Not even as his loyal dog-- oh, sorry, barker. He’s wondering how long it’ll be until you leave for good.”_

Jaskier had never been able to come up with any comebacks to that. He was witty, but Yennefer turned him into a stuttering child. Now he wondered whether, if he could smell basic emotions like Geralt, he would smell hate and disgust wafting off his best friend or not.

It was a kindness, that he didn’t have Geralt’s sharp senses, for Jaskier was sure he’d drop dead, choking on tulips, the instant he smelt that from his love.

Or perhaps it was cruel, to have his agony last for almost two years. After the dragon hunt and Geralt piercing his heart with more venom than ever, Jaskier had thought he’d pass out and die the next morning, but no such luck.

It had been ten months since Geralt had demanded Jaskier leave his side forever. And Jaskier had never intended on straying from him before, but he did not fancy being blamed for choices that had not been his to make, or being called a shit shoveler when almost every step he took, every action he made, had been to make Geralt’s life better. To have the people of the Continent adore him and thank him for being who he was, and teach everyone how fortunate they were to still have Witchers around to protect them.

The throbbing, intense pain within his ribcage had stopped that day. It had turned into a dull ache, a heartache, where Jaskier assumed the plant inside him grew. Still, his feelings did not wither, physically or metaphorically. His love carried on, and his own demise loomed over him with it.

Elves had believed there were three ways to be cured of the illness born from unrequited love: have the feelings returned, have the flowers and branches extracted by magic in the early stages of the disease, or turn the love to hate and have the plant wilt and die on its own.

Jaskier had never actually hated anyone. Not his parents, not Valdo Marx (though hearing the poor excuse of a troubadour had met a gruesome end would still cheer him up immensely), not even Yennefer, who had taken everything Jaskier had ever wanted. 

He knew he could not hate Geralt, no matter how many lives depended on it. Thankfully it was only his own; he would die alone and be missed by many, but not by the man he cared about the most.

He just wished… well. That his end would be less painful. Slowly suffocating to death hurt, and Jaskier was often tempted to just give up to save himself from what was described in books as one of the most horrible deaths.

But he told himself he deserved it, after hurting Geralt the way he had. After leaving him alone, when his love clearly needed him the most.

So he left Oxenfurt on foot after one last short performance; half an hour was all he could manage with hacking half a lung out in blood, spit and flowers. 

He had enough for a horse, but he left his coin purse with Essi. The girl could use it more than he could, and Jaskier didn’t want to leave a wandering horse looking for its dead owner. His lute, he left with Priscilla, content in the knowledge the two sexy girls he’d loved were going to stay together when he was gone.

There weren’t many miles separating him from the sea, but they seemed like whole countries when every breath was rattling and painful, and with every step he had to hold back from trying to clear his throat and make the already clogged feeling in it worse than it was. 

He stopped at random intervals, whether night or day, when his legs gave out from under him and he had to find a suitable corner under a tree or bush to curl up on his side and cough weakly. He didn’t bother eating, just tried to have his waterskin filled at all times, and he didn’t bother with clean sets of clothes or a bedroll when walking was already too much effort. Catching bouts of fitful sleep wherever he laid gave him the same meager strength that sleeping on a real mattress and having comforts back in his room in Oxenfurt had.

It was probably stupid, but Jaskier wanted to die and be carried away by the waves. The coast had always been his favourite place, and the song of the ocean had always been a masterpiece to his ears.

It was night by the time he reached the beach, the sand cool beneath his toes after he took off his boots. He sighed, sitting by the shore, and took the deepest breath he dared, the salt in the air tickling his nose and burning the raw wounds in his throat. Even that small intake of breath had him doubling over, coughing white tulips smeared with blood onto the sand, and he shut his eyes tight so that pitiful image wasn’t the last thing he saw.

The water caressed his feet like a long lost lover, and Jaskier smiled as he lay down. He conjured Geralt’s face in his mind’s eye, a trick he’d learned years ago, but that he’d forbidden himself from doing when his illness got the best of him. Even singing his old songs about the White Wolf caused more flowers to grow and cut him inside, so he’d tried not to think of him with the yearning he’d been literally cultivating within him. 

In his dreams, he still saw Geralt, and every time he woke up still alive, if choking half to death, he was a little glad he could not control everything and was still able to see him in that way.

Geralt looked fond, if slightly irritated, in Jaskier’s memory, a begrudging smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shook his head at Jaskier.

He did not doubt Geralt had cared about him; his only regret was not being good enough to make Geralt understand how much better he deserved, how his lot in life didn’t have to be so forlorn, how he could still want and have people by his side even if he slaughtered monsters for a living. He did it to protect people, after all, as much as Geralt insisted it was all he knew how to do, what he’d been made to do. A heartless monster slayer would strike a beast already down without thinking, or walk away from the poor in need, and Geralt did none of those things. He gave until he had nothing left, and saw humanity where anyone else would see teeth and claws and _other_.

It was said the ones who died from this all-encompassing love could ask one wish and it would be granted to them. Obviously, the wish couldn’t be about curing themselves, but for their beloved.

Jaskier blinked, salt from the ocean and his own tears clinging to his eyelashes, and wished Geralt a long, happy life, with all the love he’d been missing for most of his years as a Witcher.

If the Gods had to change the whole damn Continent, tear the world asunder to make his wish come true (possibly stop a war, have a stubborn enchantress realize what she was missing, turn back time, whatever it took), well then. They had their work cut out for them.

Jaskier let the sea carry him away, felt its cold embrace around him as he coughed and finally let go.


End file.
